


Toast

by Dame_Syrup (mary_pseud)



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Don't copy to other sites, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 11:58:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18738559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mary_pseud/pseuds/Dame_Syrup
Summary: For the kinkmeme prompt: Ten/Martha.  The Doctor is intrigued by her mooncup. Possible bloodplay.





	Toast

The Doctor was thinking of time, his fingers drumming on the TARDIS console in a random rhythm. The flow of the river of Time, the endless thunder of the Time Vortex in his ears and hearts, but there was something else...something nagging at him. Something to do with time – and Martha.

His eyes darted among the barnacle-like layers of controls in front of him. What was it? Martha had been here long enough to know how to feed herself; they weren't due to land for some time, so what-

There was a dial in front of him, one half of it in shadow to indicate temporal pressure. Shadow, round dial, moon – and he had it. He pushed his glasses back on his nose and went to find Martha.

She was in her quarters when he knocked; she answered the door with one finger marking her place in a volume from the TARDIS library. Probably galactic history.

"Yes, Doctor?" she asked.

The Doctor smiled, hoping his hair wasn't too at ends. "Ah, Martha, I was just remembering, and I'm sorry that I didn't remember before, but did I ever replenish to stock of, er, feminine supplies in your room?"

She arched one dark brow at him, and he was struck again by the perfect copper gloss of her skin. Her voice was throaty as she asked, "Feminine supplies? Like what? Little pink aprons and pretty shoes and-"

"No, no," he interrupted, considering the thought of Martha wearing a little pink apron and then firmly putting the thought away. "No, I mean menstrual pads. Or perhaps you prefer tampons?"

"No, Doctor, I'm all set."

The Doctor raised both of his eyebrows. "All set? Are you sure? If you're using hormonal contraceptives or something, I'd be happy to refill-"

"No, I mean, I have a mooncup."

"A – oh. One of those."

"Yes. One of those." The book was heavy in Martha's hand, and she put it down on the skinny table by the door, atop the stack of books that she'd have to leave there when the Doctor came calling at all hours."

"That's very – I don't know – that's very you, somehow. Self-contained, all prepared."

"Thank you," she said, a little flatly. She wondered if she could close the door, but the Doctor's next words brought that thought to a screeching halt.

"Could I see it?"

Martha frowned, just a little. "Not really, no."

"Oh, why not?"

"Because I'm wearing it."

"Because you're – ah."

"Ah. Exactly. So if you'd like to take a rain cheque, Doctor, perhaps in a week I could show it to you."

"A week." He adjusted his glasses.

"Yes," she said, jut a little exasperated now.

"Ah, but in a week, you wouldn't need to be wearing it, right?"

"Most likely."

"Well, if you don't mind, when you said that I couldn't see it, did you mean that I couldn't – observe it?" He leaned forward a little into her personal space, wondering if she would step away. If she did he wouldn't pursue. Humans could be so touchy about things reproductive.

But she did not lean away. She leaned closer. "You'd like to observe the cup?"

"I think so, yes." This said a little too fast, his lips close enough to brush hers. "Not with my eyes, but maybe, perhaps, with a finger? Or a tongue?"

"Or a banana?"

"What?" he said, looking down, just as Martha slipped her hand into his front trousers pocket, and found him hard and erect already.

"That's not a banana," he finally said, after a long and breathy silence.

"Oh? So I suppose you won't let me peel it?"

The Doctor was almost dancing on his heels with excitement, and he thought that his glasses were starting to fog up. "Before we do any, ah, peeling, could I go prepare a place for us? That is, if you don't mind-"

"I don't mind at all," she said, letting her fingers slide along his erection as she withdrew her hand. "See you soon."

The Doctor grinned bright as a lighthouse, and dashed off.

 

* * *

 

When Martha saw the bed that the Doctor had prepared, she almost laughed. A circular bed covered with black satin, what could be more cliché? But she didn't laugh. Instead, she demurely sat down on the edge of it – and immediately slipped off and found herself on the floor.

"What the hell?" she said, running one arm over the bed sheet; it was soft to the touch, but slick as glass at the same time.

"Oh, yes, only black sheets I could find – frictionless, you see. Or very nearly so. You sort of have to take a running jump to get onto them."

He did so, flopping on his belly and then sliding across the bed like a seal on ice. Martha laughed at the sight, and then experimented with rolling onto the bed as well. It was wonderful: it was like sledding but all warm and not wet – well actually, there was some wetness involved, between her legs. She floundered across the bed like a caterpillar, completely unable to get any traction, and finally ended up grappling onto the Doctor just to keep from sliding off the other side.

"This is ridiculous!" she half-complained.

"Yes, but it's great fun." The Doctor grinned, and started unbuttoning his shirt. "Of course, getting undressed is rather tricky-"

Tricky was not the half of it; the Doctor ended up having to open his clothes and then wriggle out the front of them, like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. Martha was having just as much trouble with her top; she pull it up on one side, then roll and do the other, and the first side would slip right back down. She started laughing, and the Doctor laughed as well as he helped, peeling off her shirt and her black trousers, and then pausing.

He was naked now, almost, his erection visibly straining against his briefs. Martha was wearing a rather battered pair of rust-red pants, and nothing else. They lay close enough that Martha could feel the coolness of the Doctor's skin, and he could feel the warmth of hers.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked. "We could just fool around."

"That sounds so foolish," the Doctor said, just the tip of his tongue peeking out. "And yes, Martha, I want to see you, all of you."

Slowly his hands slid from her waist to her hips, and ran under the nylon waist band; slowly he peeled her of her last covering, running the pants down her thighs and then raising one foot to deftly catch them between his toes and drag them off her feet.

"Now what?" she said, rolling onto her back. "You can't possibly-"

"Get into some sort of normal position? No, probably not. Sex on a frictionless surface is a lot like sex in free fall; you have to keep hanging on to the other person." He reached over and got a grip on her thigh, then with one sudden motion he rolled ever and planted himself between her legs, staring down at her shaved pubis.

"Beautiful," he said softly, raising his torso and running one hand down her soft mound. "You're always so beautiful."

"Even now?" There was a little tremble in Martha's voice – Martha the brave – trembling? – and he looked up at her. She had raised herself up by locking her elbows hard to her sides, and she stared at him down the length of her torso with wide eyes.

"Always," he breathed, and then breathed harder, blowing one long breath down between her legs and watching her skin shiver at that caress. He pressed a lip to her bare skin, then two, and then kissed, softly, again and again. Not probing her with his tongue, not yet; just kissing, letting her know that she was wonderful, wonderful and desirable.

"The cup," she said, her voice throatier than ever. "I can't wear it if we make love."

He buried his face between her legs and then smiled, and she could feel that smile. Looking down, she could see wild hair and dark eyes and nothing more. Then his voice came, every word slowly enunciated, letting his lips and tongue move just a little too slowly over wet flesh.

"May I take it out?"

She said yes, putting her head back, and he deftly reached inside her with two long fingers, rocking the cup a little back and forth, and then in an instant it was out of her and his tongue was there, licking her, licking up along her and dancing on her clit, and then painting a single long wet stroke up her body, over her belly, between her breasts, until he kissed her with a mouth heavy with her own flavour, sinking his tongue into her mouth even as his penis found her wet and ready and sank inside, and they locked their bodies together, arms around each other, and twined and twisted like two kites on the same string, dancing in the wind.

Martha had always been very excitable during her period, and now the novelty of it, the extra wetness, the shock of the Doctor's arousal was too much, and she came in only a minute or so. The Doctor paused, lying half on his side with her above him, and said, "I-"

"I'll do it," she promised, running her hand between them and finding him still deep inside her. She was so wet, so sensitive right now that further thrusting would be uncomfortable, but her long fingers could find his shaft and stroke him, stroke him with long firm strokes, while she clenched inside. It was only a moment before his panting grew into a shout and he came.

She pressed herself against him, keeping his softening erection inside as long as she could. She didn't know what the Doctor would do – was he going to leap right out of the bed and go shower? Some men did that even during regular sex, and this time-

But he didn't. He rolled onto his back, seeming to be perfectly comfortable with the tinges of extra colour on his body, the marks of her fluids. He stretched out and sighed like a self-satisfied cat, eyes half-shut in pleasure.

Martha looked at him, admiring the way his sideburns lay on his cheeks, before asking him, "Any chance you've got a set of these sheets that would fit my bed?"

"These sheets?" He opened his eyes and blinked thoughtfully at the ceiling. "They're actually not designed for sleeping, you know. You'd keep falling out of the bed."

"Well, perhaps in a week or so, after they're washed, we could try them out again."

"Washed? Why would I wash them?"

A muscle jumped in Martha's neck, and he seemed to sense her distress.

"Martha, they're frictionless sheets. Just shake them off, and they're clean."

Martha considered. "How do you hold onto them to shake them?"

"With great precision." And with precision his mouth found her breast and made her yelp, and she retaliated with a hot tongue along the rim of his ear, and by the time their bed-play was done they were both in need of a shower.


End file.
